


not every issue can be settled by committee

by Sanna_Black_Slytherin



Series: The Other 51 [6]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Asexual Character, Asexual James Madison, Asexuality, Gen, Internalized Acephobia, M/M, Minor Character Death, NaNoWriMo, Unrequited Love, ambiguous ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-08-31 05:44:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8566258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanna_Black_Slytherin/pseuds/Sanna_Black_Slytherin
Summary: Thomas Jefferson is James Madison's soulmate. James isn't Thomas'.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [I love you much...it's not enough](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5444453) by [selenedaydreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/selenedaydreams/pseuds/selenedaydreams). 
  * Inspired by [The Beat To My Heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8004376) by [ashilrak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashilrak/pseuds/ashilrak). 



> I seem to have adopted James Madison as a favourite character.
> 
> This fic has been inspired and influenced in equal measures by two other Jeffmads soulmate AUs. You could say it's my way of thanking the authors.

Soulmates are a difficult topic to discuss. If you don't know what to talk to someone about, say, at a party, you do not mention about soulmates. It's one of those topics that are considered rude to bring up at a formal dinner: you don't talk about politics (unless you are Alexander Hamilton), you don't discuss religion, you avoid sexuality, and you never start on soulmates. It's a sensitive topic, and an unexplored one for all that their society essentially revolves around it.

Here's what is known: everyone is born without colour vision, and for your entire life, you see only black and white (though you are not bothered by it at that point, because you do not have any reference to what it feels like to see colours), until you meet your soulmate. A shake of hands, a touch to the shoulder, is all it takes for colours to bloom up and brighten your world. It takes your breath away, that indescribable moment is the best time in anyone's life.

At least, that is what James has gleaned from his parents' account of their first meeting. He wouldn't know, he has not found is soulmate yet. He hopes that he will. He hopes that she will be nice and smart, and that she will let him hold her hand and kiss her and cuddle her, and that they will discuss their favourite books and watch cheesy movies.

He hopes that he will be enough for her.

Some people find their soulmate very early on; some find their soulmate later in life. Most people find each other in college. A few do not find their soulmate, despite searching for them their whole lives. Some people find their soulmate, only to lose them hours later. Their world grows grey once more—the colours recede from the world, as if dropping a curtain of black and white behind their eyes.

And that is when people start to suffer, because not only do they lose their other half, they also lose their vision. Some describe it as being crippled, as losing a limb; some call it a lethargic darkness, some a fiery hell. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, who lost his wife after scarcely a year of marriage, describes the feeling as 'being marooned in the Fields of Asphodel, forevermore destined to perpetually drift aimlessly in a crowd of faceless strangers'.

There is only one thing that every scientist agrees on: People can only have one soulmate, and it is always reciprocated. That's the entire point of having a soulmate, that one person who makes your life whole and who complements your strengths and weaknesses.

* * *

Thomas Jefferson is the acquaintance of an acquaintance. They meet at a party that Lizzie drags him to. He loves his sister to bits and pieces, but at the moment, he wants to strangle her. She knows that he hates to socialize, and she forces him to attend a party. He would rather be at home reading a good book, or even studying—especially considering that this is his last year of high school, and he needs good grades to get into pre-law.

He ends up standing off by himself in a corner, watching Lizzie dazzle around the room, charming everyone she talks to. Eventually, she returns, with two people in tow. “Jemmy, I'd like you to meet Elizabeth Jefferson, my dear friend,” the smile she gifts Elizabeth with could light up the entire room. “And that's her brother, Thomas Jefferson,” she indicates the man standing to the side awkwardly. Thomas, too, creates the impression of not being here willingly. James smiles, feeling that he has found a kindred soul.

He shakes Elizabeth's hand. “James Madison, Lizzie's brother. I have heard a lot about you,” he grins. _If by a lot, you means your name, then it is true._ He turns to Thomas and offers his hand. “Nice to meet you, Thomas Jefferson.”

Thomas watches him, then grins. “Likewise, James Madison.”

They shake hands. Suddenly, the world changes before James' eyes. The room is painted in colours and shades so beautiful, they briefly take James' breath away. He cannot help but marvel that the experience is even more incredible than any description manages to express. He looks back at Lizzie. Her hair is blonde, and her eyes are a stunning shade of green. He wonders whether his own eyes are as sparkling with mischief.

He turns his eyes to Thomas, to his _soulmate_. He is dressed in a bright purple coat. His eyes are gorgeous brown, and his skin is as brown as chocolate. James wonders if he can lick it. Maybe Thomas will let him, when they are alone. Maybe he will let James hold his hand soon. Or kiss him. Or cuddle him. James eventually stops that line of thought and sets his eyes on Thomas' sister. Elizabeth Jefferson is very similar to her brother, though her eyes are a shade lighter than his. Somehow, that makes all the difference.

He notices that Thomas keeps talking, and seems to have posed James a question that James had failed to catch. “I beg your pardon?”

Thomas laughs. It is a beautiful laugh. James wants to hear it more often. “Very polite of you,” Thomas teases. “I asked, have you met your soulmate yet?”

It is a punch to the gut because it means—

His world comes crashing down, and he feels his stomach do a barrel roll.

It means that he isn't Thomas' soulmate.

He forces himself to smile regardless. He meets Thomas' eyes, his bright and intelligent eyes, and replies, “No, but I'm sure that I will.”

He does not fantasize about Thomas' appearance again, because he knows that Thomas is not, nor will he ever be, _his_ —not in any way that matters.

* * *

James keeps a mental list of Thomas' various quirks that he discovers as his roommate. Thomas leaves his clothes all over the apartment. Thomas is insufferable in the morning when he hasn't had his morning coffee. Thomas has a perpetual beef with Alexander Hamilton, and James doesn't even remember how it started at this point. Thomas has a terrible fashion sense yet persists in saying that Hamilton is the fashion-blind one. Thomas paints with a passion. Thomas is awkward in large crowds, and needs to drink before any public speeches, and loves to write and nibbles the end of his writing utensil when he can't decide how to continue his essays. Thomas' eyes shine up with excitement when he talks about John Locke, and narrow with condescension whenever Jean-Paul Sartre comes up in a conversation—which happens more often than James previously thought possible. He scoffs whenever Trump so much as opens his mouth, and jeers at Clinton. He argues ardently with Hamilton about even trivial topics, because God knows these two could never face the fact they are more similar than they had thought and become friends.

Thomas is cute, he has a radiant smile, and his voice sounds like the verbal version of silk. He fights for what he believes in with a passion, sometimes to the point where he's unwilling to concede that he is wrong even when presented with overwhelming evidence that support the idea. He could make others smile simply through his voice, tinged with a warm happiness as it is, when he feels like it.

Thomas is handsome, intelligent, caring. James is in love with Thomas.

Thomas is James' soulmate. James loves him—his heart hurts sometimes with the sheer emotions he is feeling.

Thomas has a soulmate. Her name is Martha. That fact is a throbbing ache, but one that James has learned to ignore.

* * *

James is repulsed by sex. The mere thought about it makes him nauseous, makes him want to curl in on himself or vomit in the toilet (though preferably not in that order). He is afraid of losing control over his body, over letting someone else see him so vulnerable. The fluids involved are nauseating, and _why_ one would want to have someone else's private parts near their own is beyond James. The thought that something, be it emotions or a physical sensation, could control him to such a great extent is terrifying.

'Making love'. James scoffs. There is no love in the equation for him. Once, he might have hoped that there would be, but that was before he met Thomas Jefferson.

James feels no sexual attraction to anyone, even Thomas. Soulmates are meant to be attractive, but even the thought of having sex with Thomas is repulsive to him. He shies away from it, tries to tell himself it is because he isn't Thomas' soulmate that he does not feel any attraction.

He feels broken anyway.

Thomas would never want a broken soulmate. It's a good thing he has Martha. She is the epitome of an ordinary, sweet girl, everything Thomas deserves. Everything James cannot be.

He wants nothing other than to cuddle up to Thomas and kiss him for all eternity, but that's it. Maybe it is because Thomas is a guy. Maybe Thomas is his platonic soulmate, the kind that the church approves of. (Then again, James never believed in lying to oneself, so he will not start now.)

He will not find out anyway, because his affections are and will always remain unrequited. Thomas has Martha. He almost convinces himself that he is okay with that, okay with being the third wheel on a carriage Thomas is not even aware exists—nor will he, if James has his way.

He is torn between loathing his feelings towards Thomas, and hating his wretched body for not reacting in any _acceptable_ way. At least that way he would belong somewhere. As it is, he feels like he is standing on a sort of middle ground, torn in two opposite directions: trying to be both Thomas' friend as well as a pining lover, but ultimately not belonging in either category. He hates himself for it, but he fears losing Thomas more.

He tries to ignore the creeping fear that Thomas will find out and shun or reject James from his life because nobody is supposed to feel this way about their platonic male best friend. James does not dwell on the thought, because he does not think that he could handle having to live a life which does not contain Thomas Jefferson.

* * *

Hamilton has two soulmates. James finds this out when he is working on a project for Economics in his first year. Lee had paired them up. It is surprisingly a good decision—not something Lee is prone to making. Hamilton and James complement each other (not as much as James and Thomas did, but then again, nobody can ever measure up to Thomas in James' mind, and it's unfair to everyone else for James to compare them)—Hamilton fires off thirty ideas a minute, and James vetoes the ones that had no chance of success, then selectively chooses one or two from the rest and writes them down. This goes on until they fill an entire page. Then they start writing. Hamilton writes like the devil himself is on his tail. He writes and writes and writes, never stopping, never revising, just pours out his thoughts about any given theory. James knows that he cannot keep up, and does not try. He sets his own pace. He reviews Hamilton's essays—because that is what they had become, when he is done with them.

Unlike Hamilton, James actually cares about his health, and he couldn't pull three all-nighters in a row. Medically, there is no reason for Hamilton to even be alive after stunts like that, much less functioning better than most people did, but James has long since resigned himself to the fact that Hamilton is a mystery best left unsolved.

Hamilton is unusually understanding about James' health. Where other people scoff or made fun of him, Hamilton actually cares, in his own way. He instinctively knows when something is wrong, when James needs to stop working. He does not need James' cooperation, does not need his responses. He bounces his ideas against himself, and at a speed which astounds James. James is really just the public that listens to Hamilton's speeches.

Hamilton always writes. Words seem to whirl before his eyes, pressing, _demanding_ to be written down. He writes about everything, he's the hurricane sweeping everybody else up, leaving nothing but waste behind, always three steps in front of everyone. He never stops, because it hurts, and if he stopped, he would start to think and he can't stand that. If he stops, he wouldn't be able to start again and he'd be just a normal, ordinary, _boring_ person, just like everyone else. That thought terrifies him.

Hamilton is caught up in one of his whirlwinds, the kind during which James might as well start to sing karaoke for all Hamilton would notice. His already sloppily-buttoned sleeves roll up, and he pauses his writing to scowl at them, as though betrayed by their behaviour. He starts to button them properly, then notices that he is still doing it wrong. He closes his left eye and finishes buttoning with just one eye, then goes back to writing as though nothing had happened in the first place.

James scrutinizes Hamilton, trying to figure out what had just happened. “Hamilton,” he begins.

“Mmm?” Hamilton replies without looking up from his laptop, still frantically typing away.

“Why do you—Do you usually use one eye to look at your clothes?” he tries to pass it off as a casual question, but Hamilton's sixth sense must have pinged because he looks up and makes eye contact with James.

“Well, yeah,” he shrugs. “I can only see colours with my right eye, so it's confusing to try to do something which requires you to be able to tell apart colours when your eyes are not in agreement as to a shade.”

That is not what James had been expecting. In fact, he has not know it could be possible to have colour vision on one eye but not the other—but then again, Alexander Hamilton seems to defy every expectation. “You have met your soulmate,” James says, and though he does not phrase it as a question, Hamilton answers anyway.

“John,” he confirms with a sappy smile on his face, the same kind that Thomas gets when he talks about Martha. “But I think that I have another soulmate. I know, _I_ _know_ —people say it's impossible and that there can only be one soulmate per person, because that's what makes them truly special and unique, but I figure, since we know that soul bonds aren't necessarily reciprocated—“

That is news to James, and his thoughts grind to a halt. This, whatever is going on with him, has happened to other people as well? Why has James never heard about it?

“I figured, why can't I have two soulmates? I mean, can you explain this phenomenon in any other way?” Hamilton challenges.

James cannot. He says as much. Hamilton nods, having expected that answer, and throws himself back into work with a fervour James can only wish for.

James does not. He observes Hamilton, thinking how to phrase the question, because he _needs_ to know. He eventually settles on “Are there truly people who aren't their soulmate's soulmate?” he hates how vulnerable his voice sounds, despite his attempts to sound casual.

Hamilton looks up again. His fingers freeze over the keyboard. He takes in James' face, saves his work, and closes the laptop. “Well, yeah,” he replies. “It isn't common, and the public tries to hush it up because it would interfere with their image of a 'happily ever after'”—here, Hamilton's voice turns sour, criticizing without having to say a word, and James can almost hear the quote marks—“but it has been known to occur, if you know where to search.” Hamilton pauses, for once seeming to consider his next words. If not for the topic of this particular conversation, James would have laughed. “Is that something that is of relevance to you?” Hamilton asks, more gently than James has ever heard him be, and yet his question feels like a punch to the gut.

James has no intention of spilling his secrets to Hamilton. “I think we should elaborate on Section B of this essay.” It is neither a confirmation nor a denial, but James knows which conclusion Hamilton will draw.

Hamilton nods and, miraculously, drops the subject.

* * *

That evening, James fucks Hamilton. He's not sure what he is trying to prove—maybe that he is not broken, or that he is even capable of having sex. He does not care that Hamilton is not his soulmate, or that he is not Hamilton's. Afterwards, he spends half an hour throwing up into the toilet seat, until it feels like his stomach has been turned inside out and his head feels blissfully empty. His muscles are still shaking, his heartbeat is still above normal, and every time he closes his eyes, he sees Hamilton, spread out on the bed with that predatory gleam in his eye, but at least his thoughts have stopped running at a mile an hour trying to rationalize his reaction. _It was a man. It was Hamilton. It wasn't Thomas._ None of the explanations feel right.

For the following week, he flinches every time someone so much as touches him. People shrug it off as 'another weird freak issue'. James secretly agrees with them.

* * *

Occasionally, James has dreams where Thomas is not his soulmate, where James has found a stunning girl who would amaze and astonish him with her wits and her beauty. They leave him feeling hollow inside.

* * *

Nobody ever asks him what he wants. James wants to hold Thomas' hand and kiss him and just cuddle up with him. They already discusses books and watch cheesy movies, but James wants that to mean more. He wants to have what Martha has. He tries not to feel jealous of her, but it is hard when she has everything he has ever wished for at her fingertips. He tries not to imagine their dates, filled with laughter and clinking glasses and funny anecdotes and a walk in the cool breeze and the occasional peck on the lips.

The thing is, Martha might not be Eliza Schuyler, Angelica's sister, who has the patience of a saint and the compassion to match it, but she is far too kind to deserve anything James might wish upon her.

He wants to stop feeling like he is broken, or a first draft that God has abandoned but accidentally forgotten to scrap.

* * *

Everything changes when Martha dies.

Thomas invites her to spend some time with them—he includes James in this, as if Thomas doesn't know that James knows that Thomas wants to have some time alone with Martha. They have both been too busy this past week to meet, and Martha readily agrees. Thomas suggests that she take the 12:32 train, and Martha teases that she remembers how to get to Thomas' apartment without any reminders, _thank you very much_. James can hear this because Thomas, in his efforts to include James, has put his phone on speaker.

Thomas drags James out with him to wait for Martha at the station, and talks excitedly about what they can do once Martha arrives. Martha does not arrive, and neither does the 12:32 train. As minutes tick by, Thomas starts to pace in a pattern seen only by himself, and James assures his friend that the train is simply running late and to just _sit down already Thomas you're making everyone nervous._

Thomas stills just before the loudspeaker crackles and a grave voice announces that the 12:32 train had an accident. There is no further information yet.

Thomas doesn't react in the way James expects. He expects for his friend to jump up and start to demand that the clerk tells him everything he knows and more. He expects that Thomas will start to rant that he needs to know that his girlfriend is okay, that he will do everything in his power to contact her and ascertain her safety. He expects that Thomas will be full of energy that he has no way of exhausting, because that is how Hamilton would respond, and Thomas and Hamilton are far too similar for their own good.

Instead, Thomas sinks into one of the uncomfortable waiting chairs and stares. He remains perfectly still, even when James tries to gain Thomas' attention. The only sign of life is Thomas' heaving chest. He stays like that for a long time—James doesn't look at the clock because he knows that if he does, he will start to calculate the chances of Martha being seriously injured or worse, and they do not have anywhere to be today anyway.

James spends the time checking the news. Fox reports that there has been an accident on the rails. The 12:32 train has derailed off the tracks and crashed. There are casualties, two already identified (both men), and three whose identity is still unknown. The next update identifies the man as Ahmed Kanaan and two women as Julia Feng and Martha Wayles. James doesn't tell Thomas. He does not need to—Thomas already knows.

After an indefinite length of time, James manages to coax Thomas out of the chair and into a cab. Despite the fact that they live three blocks away from the station, Thomas is in no condition to walk. His whole world has come tumbling down. James knows exactly how that feels.

James guides Thomas over to the couch on automatic. He makes turzum tea—Thomas' favourite, as expensive as it is delicious. Thomas does not touch it. He continues to stare blankly. James drapes a blanket over him, then looks around, perplexed. He is at a loss as to what to do next. It is not as if there is handbook on how to help your soulmate through the loss of their soulmate.

He resorts to reading, because that keeps him grounded and takes his mind off the fact that Martha is gone forever. He reads out loud to Thomas, hoping that it will have some assuaging effect. Thomas does not react.

At some point, James gets up to take care of his basic needs, because while his mind is transfixed, as if refusing to process information will deny its existence, his body still presses for food, among other things. He makes mac 'n' cheese and alternates between eating it and force-feeding Thomas. Afterwards, he returns to reading. The moments blur into each other until the evening becomes a single instance of indeterminable length. James eventually falls asleep in the armchair.

In the morning, he finds Thomas in the same position he left him. He makes breakfast and calls in sick for himself and for Thomas. The professors are understanding, and tell him to take as much time as they need. James absentmindedly ponders that they need all the time in the world.

Hamilton drops by with assignments. Uncharacteristically, he does not say a lot. He says that he will help in _any_ way he can. Against his better judgement, James takes Hamilton up on his offer. He throws up afterwards, as expected, but he relishes in the feeling, treasuring it as an actual reaction to something other than the death of Martha Waynes. He is fucked up. At the moment, he doesn't care. Hamilton departs after one last kiss in plain view of Thomas. James returns to reading.

* * *

James falls into a routine over the next days—wake up, breakfast, read, tea for Thomas which he never drinks, read, dinner, read, fall asleep. Hamilton does not visit again.

He runs out of food on his third day, so he showers and visits the local grocery store. While there, he picks up a few new books to read. He is partial to fantasy—it challenges his imagination while making him forget about his daily worries. He avoids romance, always has ever since he discovered that it isn't something he will ever have. Why give yourself false hope when it only leads to suffering?

One day, he realizes that he and Thomas are awfully behind on their assignments. He starts to pour his energy into that. The essays he writes are some of his best works. He laughs at the irony.

* * *

When Thomas comes out of his daze, the first words he utters are not about Martha. “Is Hamilton your soulmate?” he asks flatly. There is betrayal in his voice. James should not adore it, but he does, because that is an emotion. Thomas is starting to feel something again.

“No,” he replies simply.

“Good.”

Silence.

“Have you found your soulmate?”

“No,” James hates lying to Thomas, but what is he supposed to say?

“Avoid that. Soulmates only lead to suffering,” Thomas says tonelessly, like all joy has been sipped out of him.

“I thought you said the world was beautiful when you have found your other half.”

“It is,” Thomas' lip quirks into a half-smile, although James can tell it's not genuine, “but the cost is too high.”

James does not know how to respond to that. He also does not know how to deal with the new version of Thomas, once so full of life, now barely a shell of his former brilliant self. Thomas starts to go about his day. He eats. He showers. He walks. He writes. He writes long and he writes fast. He writes enough to match Hamilton. He does not paint anymore, though James does not know if it is because he cannot tell the colours apart anymore, or if he does not see the meaning behind it. He spends hours every day tending to Martha's grave, picking out flowers with utmost care.

Thomas does not sleep, _cannot_ sleep, alone anymore. They start sharing a bed. James is uncertain how he feels about that—on one hand, he cannot deny that he loves waking up to seeing Thomas' face. On the other hand, he knows that he cannot touch Thomas, cannot kiss him or hold his hand. He finally understands the proverb 'So close, yet so far away'.

They eventually return to class. Washington gives them a concerned look but doesn't comment beyond giving them a list of the assignments they missed that Hamilton did not inform them of. It is nothing they can't handle, especially not with James' newfound talent and Thomas' obsession with writing.

Thomas does not talk about that day. He stops talking, stops arguing with Hamilton, ceases making his presence known. It breaks something inside James to see him this way.

It is funny, James considers, that though Thomas is the one who has lost his colour vision, James also feels that the world has become less vibrant. He supposes that the rumours that claim that your soulmate affects your emotions are true.

* * *

James grieves, he really does, but he also cannot help but feel vindictive, because if he can't have his soulmate, then neither should Thomas. Then he feels guilty for thinking such thoughts. He squashes the flash of guilt.

* * *

“You did not need to take care of me.”

“I wanted to. You are”— _my soulmate_ —“my friend. You would have done the same for me.”

Silence. “You would not have needed my help. You are so much stronger than me.”

“Thomas, you are not weak,” James gives Thomas' hand a squeeze. “You went through something nobody should go through, especially not at our age.”

“Other people go through it,” Thomas refutes. “Other people don't end up like disasters.”

“Other people can go fuck themselves,” James says frankly, and Thomas laughs. It is still not as genuine a laugh as Before, but James takes what he can get.

* * *

One day, James slips up.

They are working on an assignment for Professor Hanover about climate change and clean environment. The living room floor is laden with various books on the matter, sorted into categories based on the author's stance on greenhouse gas emissions.

Thomas is in one of his writing flows, but James seems to have hit a block. He nibbles on a Pop-Tart as he traces the cracks between the keys with his finger. “Thomas,” he calls out, grabbing Thomas' attention, “you wouldn't happen to have a copy of Kant's _Critique of Pure Reason_?”

“I do, as a matter of fact. It is one of the best books I have ever read.”

“Can I borrow it? I need to find a supporting argument for why it is morally wrong to just ignore rising ocean levels.”

Thomas shrugs. “I'm not sure Kant will help with that, but sure. It's on that bookshelf.” He points across the living room.

James stands up and peers at the titles. “Thomas, where specifically? There are like a _million_ books here.”

Thomas rolls his eyes. “It has a green cover," he says habitually. "You'll know it when you see it.”

There is only one book with a green cover on Thomas' shelf. Without thinking, James pulls it out, then freezes as Thomas realizes what James had done. Thomas' eyes narrow. “How did you know which book it was?” His voice sounds condemnatory.

James shrugs, going for the innocent look. Judging from Thomas' face, he overshoots by a mile. “I guessed,” he offers.

“You haven't told me you met your soulmate.” Thomas sounds hurt.

“Thomas, please drop it.”

“Who is your soulmate?” Thomas demands. “I told you mine, but you seem to have kept yours! When did you find her?” There is sorrow in his eyes.

“I can't tell you.”

“Can't or won't?” Thomas taunts.

“Both,” James replies, because he really cannot tell Thomas. If he did, he would lose Thomas, and they are more co-dependent than ever. Thomas is still frayed at the edges after Martha. He can't deal with a bombshell like that. “Besides, it doesn't matter.”

Thomas glares. “Doesn't matter?” he repeats, finding the very words preposterous. “ _Of fucking course_ it matters, Jemmy!” he all but snarls. “A soulmate is your other half, the other part of your very soul, the only person who can ever truly understand you!” He pauses to take a breath. “James, you're the closest friend I've got. If you ever valued our friendship, please tell me,” he begs.

James sighs. “It is _because_ I value our friendship that I can't tell you,” he replies evenly.

“It can't be that bad,” Thomas reasons. “Nobody you could have for a soulmate could ever drive you away from me. You know that, right? You already said that it's not Hamilton, so who could it be that you fear my reaction? Laurens? Mulligan? Angelica? Eliza? Tell me; I deserve to know whom you are endangering our friendship for!”

It is too much for James. He can feel his eyes tear up because he realizes he has already lost this battle, one way or another. Either he will lose Thomas because he tells him, or he will lose him because he does not tell him.

James chooses. “You,” he admits, the words coming out in a rush. “You are my soulmate.”

It feels both freeing and terrifying to say it out loud. He has only ever admitted it in his head.

Thomas does not respond, and anxiety coils itself around James. “Aren't you going to say something?” James finally musters the courage to ask.

Thomas responds not with words but with actions. He pounces on James, pushing him against a wall and pressing his lips to James'. James can virtually taste the desperation in Thomas' kiss. Thomas presses his body against James', and this is all James has ever wished for, all he has ever imagined, so why does he find this situation so devastating? Why does the sound of their mingled breaths break his already-damaged heart?

Neither of them enjoy it, James can tell. Thomas has the excuse of James not being his soulmate, but James? He's just a freak.

“Stop,” James orders when Thomas starts to grind his hips in a frantic attempt to—do what, exactly? _Pleasure_ James? _My darling Thomas, your attempts are in vain._ James pulls away from the kiss. “Answer my question,” he demands.

Thomas leans his forehead against James'. “What do you want me to say?” he asks with a glint of anguish in his eyes. “That I am in love with you? I love you, Jemmy. I love you so much my heart wants to explode sometimes. You are brilliant and caring and generous. But I am not _in love_ with you.”

“I know,” James closes his eyes. “And I am not Martha. You can't just replace her with me.”

“I wasn't—“

“Don't lie to me, Thomas," James pleads. "Please.”

“What, like you have?” Thomas scoffs. “You have done nothing but lie to me ever since the day we met. Remember the party? I asked you if you had met your soulmate yet. And you said no.”

“What could I say? 'Yes, Thomas. _You_ are my soulmate'?”

“Exactly!” Thomas insists.

“No,” James shakes his head. “You would feel trapped by me and never seek out anyone else out of some sort of misplaced duty to me.”

“I am your soulmate, I have a duty to you.”

James gently cups Thomas' cheek with his right hand. It feels warm against his cold fingers. “No, you don't.”

“Then you're saying that you wouldn't want me”—one of Thomas' hands sneaks south—“like that?” Thomas touches him, and James flinches. He bats away Thomas' hand.

“No." He knows this about himself. He is not sexually attracted to his soulmate. His life would be both more complicated yet _so much easier_ if he was.

“Yet you want to fuck that Caribbean bastard,” Thomas retorts sharply. “Why?”

“Hamilton is just a distraction,” James replies. _But that's not quite it, is it?_   his mind fills in. _You didn't need a distraction from Thomas. You just wanted to feel normal._

“Let me be that distraction,” Thomas pleads, his mouth biting and licking James' earlobe.

“No, Thomas,” James says again, because he will be damned if he makes the same mistake a third time, and with the one person who matters the most, to boot. “I will not let you do this to yourself. I will not do this to myself, not again.”

Thomas pulls away from James, but remains close. “What do you mean?”

James considers whether to reveal his unnatural repulsion to all things sexual, then decides that nothing can push Thomas away further than the knowledge that he is his best friend's soulmate. He has already damned himself, might as well confess. “I don't like sex. I never have. Just the idea of sex makes me feel ill. I don't find anyone sexually attractive—no, not even you, Thomas,” he adds when Thomas opens his mouth. “I have long wanted to hold your hand, to kiss you, to cuddle with you, but I have never wanted to shag you.”

“And now?” Thomas prompts when James trails off. “Do you still want to kiss me?” He sounds in equal parts hopeful and dismayed.

 _I am not Martha, dammit._ “Yes, but I am not going to. You don't want to kiss me—you want to kiss Martha.”

“Martha is _dead_ ,” Thomas' voice softens. “Please don't leave me, Jemmy. I'll do anything, just don't leave me.”

James hates how pitiful Thomas' voice sounds. “I will never leave you, Thomas,” he reassures, “but neither will I let you do something you—and, by extension I—will hate.”

Thomas squeezes his shoulder. “You deserve a proper soulmate,” he murmurs. “Someone who can love you fully. Someone who isn't broken.”

And James laughs, because he has had the exactly same thoughts about himself.

“If I had the power to choose, I would still choose you.”

_Across a thousand lifetimes, I would still choose you._

**Author's Note:**

> I love you much...it's not enough is my favourite romance story of all time, and I have read and re-read it so many times that it is inevitable that some ideas or similarities will appear, even unwittingly, in this fic.
> 
> The last lines are shamelessly quotes from I love you much...it's not enough. I apologize if I infringed on your work, but I found those lines so beautiful that any version of them would simply take away their meaning.


End file.
